


i like you in red

by blindbatalex



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Liverpool F.C., M/M, Manchester United, Pining, X - Freeform, a fictional take on the Michael Carrick testimonial, anyway enjoy!, seriously pine trees don’t pine this much, still mostly happy though?, these two men really don’t sound English and i’m sorry for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: Gary and Jamie find themselves playing against each other again, but this time they like each other for a change.(Maybe, in fact, they like each othertoo muchfor their own good.)





	i like you in red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> Dear neyvenger, I truly meant the fic to be fluff and crack and it somehow ended up being about three times as sentimental as I’d have liked. Sigh… I hope you still enjoy it! And I apologize in advance for the Carrick feels that snuck in and took over a couple of scenes without my permission. If only this friendly was a regular charity game instead.
> 
> My dear betas, you are both amazing and I wouldn’t have made it through this fic if not for your patient handholding, encouragement and on point suggestions. I would also definitely misidentify Didi and get a whole bunch of things on Liverpool and Jamie wrong. Thank you both, truly. <3

“Can we get another round?” Jamie asks, pointing to their table and the patrons nearby cheer as though he’s ordered a round for the whole pub. They make small talk to Jamie as he waits for the bartender to pour their drinks.

“Good one, son.”

“Stevie’s still got it, hasn’t he?”

“You two sure you don’t want to come out of retirement? God knows the current team could use you.”

Jamie nods, and smiles at them, a faint blush rising on his cheeks as much from their praise - the pride that lights up their faces, these men he’s never met - as from the alcohol. Sure it was just a charity game, with nothing of import riding on it, nothing like the hard fought battles of Prem but even hours later Jamie can still hear the Anfield singing, hear the way 50,000 people’s breath caught when Stevie scored. And somewhere between that, the soreness of his legs, and Stevie’s laughter rising from their table Jamie remembers this is what _alive_ feels like.

His mobile buzzes as he’s making his way back with a tray of beers. Another congratulatory text probably, from one friend or another.

Or a backhanded compliment or two from one rival turned colleague turned friend.

**congratz**

**who knew u arent half bad when ur competiton are geriatric old men**

Having set the beers down, Jamie chuckles as he types a quick response. At least everyone at the table seems sufficiently drunk (and sufficiently happy with the fresh round of drinks) to mind Jamie’s bad manners.

**yeah? u are one to speak when we both know u wouldnt even make it to the 2nd half**

He doesn’t have to wait long for the phone to buzz again. For someone who claims to have little knowledge of modern technology Gary still somehow types very fast.

**we could see who’s still got it**

**shame you are still too scared to play at OT**

Gary’s been teasing him to join the all stars side at Carrick’s testimonial ever since Carrick sent the invitations out a few weeks ago. And it’s not that Jamie is _afraid_ to play at Old Trafford, or against Gary -he’s never been. It’s just that… Well, for one Jamie has vacation plans with his mates for that week that he made ages ago. It would be such a pain to find another time that works for everybody, and also as a sensible man Jamie has no intention to spend his free time at Old Trafford of all places. Cordially invited or not, he belongs there only as much as Gary would have belonged at Anfield earlier today, or the Pope at a strip club.

Not that Jamie is comparing himself to the Pope and Old Trafford to a strip club, mind you, as he’d explained to Phil. 

Jamie just doesn’t need to stand at an ugly ass pitch for ninety minutes to be reminded of the fact that Gary’s true place is with the Giggsys and the Scholesys of the world. That he already knows. 

He’s typing to remind Gary of his set-in-stone vacation plans when Didi snatches his phone and tuts. 

“Edwin didn’t come all the way to Liverpool for you to get lost in your phone, mate.” he chides and both Stevie and Edwin express their agreement with a cheer. 

They demand a long apology from Jamie and a solemn promise to behave before he can get his mobile back, and both keep getting interrupted because Stevie finds something he says very funny or Edwin claims he can’t understand a word coming out of Jamie’s mouth. 

After what feels like a decade Didi finally hands his mobile back, and the screen flashes with two more text notifications.

**come onnn**

**u know u like me in red ; )**

Jamie chuckles. He has seen Gary in various abominable United kits plenty of times over the years. He’s never liked it.

As such Jamie doesn’t know why he asks Stevie whether he’ll also score at Old Trafford in June. It’s not like Jamie will be there.

They are jointly staggering towards their cab and leaning on each other for support. Stevie stops for a moment and looks at him. (It’s a wise decision; Jamie is pretty sure they will tumble to the ground if they try to walk and look at each other at the same time.) A mischievous grin breaks across his face. 

“It wouldn’t be fair to our friend Carrick if we didn’t put in our best now, would it?”

Jamie grins back in return. He could provide the assist. How Gary would bristle at him, standing by the goalposts, his mouth a thin line, taking the game too seriously to ever let go of a conceded goal even in a friendly. There’d be a faint sheen of sweat on his face from exertion and that lovely furrow forming between his eyebrows whenever he focuses on something too hard. His jersey would cling tight to his torso with sweat and the rain, a nipple showing through the wet polyester.

Nipples.

Jamie bets Gary has perfect, lovely nipples that would pucker up and press against his jersey at the first opportunity. Shame he hasn’t paid attention to this very important detail in all the years they played against each other. It was raining in at least half of those encounters too.

“Oi,” Stevie’s voice cuts through his train of thought. “Stop daydreaming and get inside the cab, will ya?” Jamie doesn’t understand why Stevie is shoving him in with a gentle but firm hand. He wasn’t planning on standing outside in the chilly air all night like a drunk scarecrow anyway.

Once they are inside, and once he’s huffed and puffed at Stevie enough for his needless shoving Jamie fishes out his phone, his heart beating a tad faster than usual. 

Cage  
Carleton  
Carrick

Yes.

Jamie offers a silent thank you to the circumstances that led him to save Carrick’s number on his phone (though he has no idea what those circumstances were at the moment) and types a quick text declaring his intentions.

This is the best impulsive decision he’s ever made.

*

“Finally remembered you aren’t a pensioner? That you have the financial flexibility to reschedule vacations as a rich retired player?” Gary asks with that crooked grin of his as they power walk to the studio for the MNF rehearsal. If he is trying to hide his pleasure behind sarcasm he is not doing a particularly great job. The rhythm of his voice gives him away.

“Nah,” Jamie shoots back, wondering whether Gary has always been this easy to read, “Carrick asked me real nice and since he isn’t an asshole like the rest of you Manc lot I couldn’t say no.”

There, that sounds much better than the truth.

_I texted Carrick ‘yes’ when I was shitfaced and I was too embarrassed to go back on it in the morning._

_I do like you in red._

_I’d like you in any color actually_. 

(except maybe teal, Gary would just look weird in teal.)

(I like you.)

Well, that way lies madness. So Jamie carefully rearranges his thoughts and tunes back into the conversation.

“...thinking I can grow back the mustache too, to complete the retro look.” Gary is saying next to him, and he sounds more excited about the prospect than anyone who’s seen that rat moustache has a right to be. 

“No.”

“But it really brings out my eyes.”

How can a mustache bring out anyone’s eyes? If he’s put that much thought into it though it’s paramount that Gary be stopped, and stopped now before it’s too late.

“Neville.” He stops Gary with a hand on his arm to make that very point just before they are about to step into the studio. To say you are not growing back that abomination and do the world a favor. But he must have stopped Gary too abruptly because Gary’s sharp brown eyes are on him in an instant, wary as though he’s been caught off his guard, searching.

Gary is looking right through him, scanning every inch of his face as though he is looking for something there, though Jamie knows not what. Though he is a little afraid of what he might find, especially when a small part of his mind is wondering how easy it would be to lean in and steal a kiss, just now.

Jamie drops his hand like it’s been burned. “You are not growing back that abomination” he says, like he had originally planned. The words sound strange on his lips. But Gary takes the cue _(don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Carra)_ and just like that they are back on familiar ground.

They start walking again.

“Do you want me to call Sir Alex because I will do it.” Jamie wiggles his eyebrows to show he means the threat. He wonders what exactly was going through Gary’s mind just now.

“Fine,” Gary says, a little sullen, already back to his normal self, the moment already forgotten, “but I am growing out my hair.”

“Fine.” Jamie knows a good compromise when he sees one. Though at some point he probably needs to re-evaluate the life choices that led him to haggling with a Manc over what facial hair he is allowed to grow. This was not _at all_ how he pictured his retirement. 

*

The air in the tunnel vibrates with the ambient noise from the stands, as 75,000 voices chatter and laugh around Old Trafford. A little bit of sunshine filters in through the entrance, carrying the promise of summer with it. It is nothing like the previous times Jamie has stood in this tunnel. Gone is the electricity that crackles in the very air and threatens to set it on fire, gone the hostility that oozes from the very bones of the stadium, as tens of thousands of voices remind them they are not welcome here as if they needed reminding - _they are not welcome and yet they have the world to fight for because of it, everything to win and everything to lose_.

“I predict three one to United; Carragher scores twice,” Gary says drawing laughter from the United line.

“Careful Neville, I’m not sure this ground can handle the excitement of more than one goal per game nowadays - no offense to Carrick.”

Now it’s the all-stars line’s turn to chuckle while Carrick brushes it off with a quick _none taken_. He is fidgeting where he stands, Jacey and Louise running around him, even as he tries to keep a neutral face. Jamie sympathizes; he doesn’t know anybody who wasn’t a mess of emotions on the day of his testimonial.

*

The guard of honor is beautiful. Carrick comes onto the pitch with his children at either side, awash in the early afternoon light. His teammates and friends cheer him on, and the stadium sings his name. Jamie knows that later, long after the game and the celebrations end all that’s left for Carrick will be a sense of finality, an ache in his heart that knows he will wake up one day soon, and have no training or game to go to. And he suspects Carrick knows it too, but for now he walks with his shoulders held back and the crest with the little devil proud over his heart.

Just before they break to take their starting positions Gary catches his eye and smiles quietly. There is just a hint of sadness in his eyes, as though he knows too. But like so many of their truths it’s not one to be spoken of.

Instead he says something cliched like good luck because you’ll need it, giving a thumbs up to Stevie as he takes his starting position. 

Old Trafford is still singing Carrick’s name. 

*

The first forty minutes of the testimonial are exactly what you’d expect of a testimonial at Old Trafford. The tempo easy and free-flowing because it’s a testimonial and with three total shots on target between the two teams because it’s at Old Trafford.

The back of Jamie’s head throbs once or twice unhappily at the memory of being used for target practice (‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to!’ Scholes had shouted from where the United side was warming up, his expression neither apologetic nor convincing). 

He makes a few good tackles and nobody boos him. It’s jarring.

On the other side of the pitch Gary looks right at home among his friends, his sense for their movements still crystal clear even if his control on the ball or his passes no longer are. He looks decades younger in the baggy retro kit, years of lines and crinkles melting away under the Old Trafford sun. He fits at Old Trafford as though the massive stadium, the green pitch, the singing fans are an extension of his body. 

Jamie would never admit it out loud but in its way it is gorgeous to behold.

 

Stevie loses his balance while attempting to finish a cross from a corner, Gary and Rio snicker like schoolboys and Jamie misses the days he would have started a fist fight for half as much. 

“We brought this upon ourselves, didn’t we” he tells Stevie as they jog away for the goal kick. He is not sure Stevie hears him though, judging by the way he is still too busy looking back and fixing Rio with his steely death stare. Jamie chooses to ignore the Demba Ba chants he thinks he can faintly hear coming from where the United defenders stand.

They get their revenge ten minutes later, when they find themselves in the exact same position. Michael Owen jogs up for another corner, Gary pulls, or rather _playfully tugs_ at Jamie’s jersey and another cross is delivered into the penalty box. Lampard deftly heads the ball towards the top corner of the goal, van der Sar punches it away at the last second and the rebound finds Stevie on the edge of the box. Except this time Stevie sends a screamer that flies past every United defender and past the outstretched hands of the goalie and lodges itself neatly into the bottom left corner.

Jamie’s seen Stevie score hundreds of goals, and it’s just as breathtaking every single time.

He runs into his best mate’s arms on autopilot the same way he’s done for decades and buries his head into Stevie’s neck as their teammates join them. In the closeness of the space he can feel both their heartbeats thrum through his body. 

And then he looks up. (As he was jumping into Stevie’s arms he’s angled himself _just so_ , so that Gary would be in his direct line of vision and Carrick very much so out of it.) He grins at Gary and because they’ve really brought it upon themselves he _winks_.

His reward is instantaneous in the way Gary bristles back at him, his mouth drawn into a paper thin line, color rising high on his neck.

Gary is so used to his banter that it’s getting harder and harder to get a rise out of him. But put him on a pitch and celebrate a Gerrard goal and he looks ready to start a brawl. 

Jamie revels in the sight. There is a faint sheen of sweat on Gary’s face from exertion, his chest rising up rapidly and his brows are knitted together with a lovely furrow forming right in between them.

_It was supposed to be raining_ , Jamie thinks suddenly, though he has no idea why.

*

United are all business when the second half kicks off. Jamie doesn’t blame them; as much as he enjoys poking fun at the United lot they need to win this game today for Carrick. He deserves as much.

Five minutes in Vidic tackles the ball away just outside of the United box and sends it to Gary. Gary who has acres of space in front of him and sprints forward as though his life depends on it. Jamie urges the all-stars defenders forward (because if United want goals they will have to fight for it) and runs into Gary’s path. He doesn’t hesitate as he extends a leg and slides at full speed to get the ball away--

\--and catches Gary’s ankle along with the ball instead.

There is a sharp intake of breath as they fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs. 

“Gary.” In the distance Jamie can hear the referee’s whistle. “Are you okay?” For a brief moment, as the silence stretches and Jamie scrambles back up to his feet he dreads what the answer might be.

“Ouch. Ref!” Gary is holding his right ankle and rolling on the ground with a theatricality befitting of Arjen Robben or Cristiano Ronaldo. 

“A straight red, that was. Oww. I’m not sure if I’ll walk again.”

As the referee and Carrick jog over, Jamie breathes a sigh of relief. Underneath the exaggeration he can see the very real lines of pain on Gary’s drawn face but if he can roll around with that much energy and make that many loud demands for Jamie to be sent off, he will be fine.

Jamie swallows down the lingering worry and the guilt (since when does he feel guilty for only slightly mistimed tackles anyway?) and does the only natural thing to do--a vehement case for how you can always find one Manc or the other rolling around on the ground to get an unfair advantage.

“I’d never,” Gary replies from where he’s now propped himself up on one elbow on the grass, “he is confusing us with his nasty Scouse lot ref. Us Mancs respect the game, respect the officials too much for that.”

Carrick and the referee exchange a significant look, the one Jamie has often see parents give one another when their children are wreaking havoc at a guest’s house. Carrick in particular (ever since he realized Gary wasn’t seriously hurt) looks as though he’d rather have the ground open up and swallow him whole. Jamie doesn’t understand why their banter often instigates such a reaction in Mancs and Scousers alike. It’s just banter.

“Carragher, Neville this isn’t your studio playground; act your age.” the referee too somehow sounds more annoyed than referees did when they actually fought on the pitch. “Indirect kick to Manchester United. Neville--do you need that looked at?”

Much to Jamie’s relief Gary shakes his head, and takes Jamie’s outstretched hand to pull himself back up to his feet. As he jogs back to position Jamie resists the urge to tell Gary to have it looked at anyway.

*

Giggs equalizes from a free kick. Old Trafford gives a deafening roar, serenading their hero as though he’s just scored in an FA Cup final. Jamie squints to see if that’s a slight limp he can see in Gary’s step twenty yards away.

*

And then it all goes to hell with five minutes to go. 

Since they equalized Manchester United have been trying very hard to get Carrick a goal and after many a failed attempt, finally finally they succeed. Gary gives the ball to Scholes after a nice run on the right wing. Scholes steps past a defender like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do and crosses the ball. All Carrick needs to do then is to chest it down and barrel it into the net in one smooth motion.

It feels so _right_ , the way Carrick gets to win his own testimonial at the death, the way his name echoes across the stadium, more than seventy-five thousand voices united in Carrick!, Carrick!, Carrick! that Jamie can’t help but get swept up in the moment too, even if they technically just conceded a goal. He pumps his fist in Carrick’s direction, and hopes it conveys what he cannot voice-

_that was amazing you’ve done well it will never be the same you’ll never be young again but maybe that’s okay because they will be here and they will remember they will keep singing long after you’ve stopped running._

Gary meanwhile, is running-- _sprinting_ \--towards his teammates where they are forming one big happy puppy pile by the far corner flag. 

In a moment he is going to whizz past Jamie and throw himself right on top. Jamie regards him with amusement, taking in the way he seems oblivious to anything but the United red beckoning him in, a wild grin on his face. There is no way Gary will see the fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips so Jamie doesn’t fight it, cameras be damned.

And that is exactly when Gary turns his head just so to the right and notices Jamie.

Gary’s eyes widen and his mouth hangs a little open.

He is running, running, running. Right leg already flying forward even as the left stomps the ground.

Except.

Except when his right foot comes down the angle is wrong. Jamie watches as Gary’s face transforms from surprise to a grimace as his boot twists out upon contact with the ground--

Jamie knew it. He knew Gary should have gotten that ankle looked at, instead of barging on with the game like the stubborn bastard that he is.

It doesn’t twist by much, only barely, but it’s enough.

Gary’s own momentum betrays him. He flails his arms in one big circular motion to regain his balance as he wobbles forward.

But it’s no use.

A couple more steps at most and he’s going to fall--

Jamie doesn’t think.

\--he’s going to fall and bust up his ankle for good.

He simply throws himself into Gary’s path and lunges forward to meet him halfway, he can catch Gary before he falls. 

He knows he’ll always catch Gary like he knows his own name. 

Gary blinks as he registers what Jamie is doing and he tries to slow down to ease the impact but there is no time.

Jamie stretches out his arms and Gary collides into him still at near-full speed. Jamie holds onto him as he tries to steady their combined mass. Gary is trying to do the same thing, clinging on to Jamie’s jersey, but it’s not enough. Gary’s momentum is too much. Like a Jenga tower whose last steady piece has just been pulled out they will come crashing down to the ground any moment. 

Jamie pushes forward to counter it with all he’s got, all muscle memory and instinct, the world narrowing down to an urge to keep them upright.

That is perhaps why he doesn’t register how close Gary’s face is to his own as he pushes forward, head first. How Gary tries to turn his head away, to angle himself just so but fails because everything is happening at a dizzying speed and there is no time.

And then.

there is something warm and oh so soft against his lips. soft like river mersey at sunset, like music in a summer night. jamie wants to drink it in. he wants the moment to stretch and stretch until the world consists only of the softness and the warmth brushing against his mouth. jamie wants.

He hears the horrified gasp that ricochets off the stands just as Gary shoves him away. 

Gary. 

Those are Gary’s lips.

Someone (Rio?) says ‘well it was bound to happen sooner or later, wasn’t it?’ and cracks up much more than the situation warrants and Gary-- Gary is staring dead at him but there is something hard in his eyes. Something Jamie can’t quite read.

Fuck.

It wasn’t a kiss. Their lips barely brushed each other (and rationally it couldn’t have been more than a second). And yet.

Seventy-five thousand fans did not see it that way--from seats that are close enough to see but too far to observe. Hell, from the way Gary turns without a word and walks away, fury still washing off his shoulders in waves, Jamie doesn’t think he saw it that way either.

(Over by the far corner flag the United players have stopped celebrating and are now clearing their throats and looking at anywhere but the two of them.)

Whatever friendship they had built over the years, slowly, careful at each step, he has gone and ruined by accidentally smooching Gary at Old Trafford for the whole world to see. 

Sometimes even Jamie can’t believe himself.

*  
That Jamie registers very little of the rest of the game or Carrick’s speech is to be expected. But that Old Trafford doesn’t hear either; phones tweeting, texting, and snapping, distracted, as thousands of minds try to wrap themselves around what they have just witnessed--that is inexcusable. 

It’s one thing to be consistently overlooked by the national team or for your chant to be an underwhelming _hard to believe he’s not Scholes_ but it’s quite something to have your own testimonial hijacked by two old men, who were never supposed to get along, inappropriately kissing on the pitch.

Carrick, _or anyone really,_ deserves better than that. 

*

Jamie heads straight to the press area afterwards. If he can’t turn back the time the least he can do is do press and try to talk some sense into their sensationalist little minds.

Stevie puts a gentle hand on his shoulder as they walk into the tunnel. “Should I come with?” 

What he has done to end up with Steven Gerrard as his best mate, Jamie will never know. His Stevie who knows him too well to joke about the frankly ridiculous incident just yet. Who offers to face the vultures with Jamie and fully means it.

He is about to accept the lifeline when he sees Gary heading to do press as well. 

A haunting vision occurs to Jamie.

_“I assure you it was an accident,” Stevie is addressing the reporters, voice quiet but confident as always, letting his--quite unfounded--belief in Jamie and his distaste for his surroundings shine through his words, “my man Carra here is a true Bootle boy. He’d take being thrown into a pit of snakes over kissing a Manc any day of the week. Wouldn’t you Jamie?”_

_“Oh,” Gary snaps before anyone can say anything, fixing them both with a death glare “I’d take throwing _him into a pit of snakes than being kissed by a fucking Scouser in my fucking stadium, any day of the week too, just so you know.”__

____

____

Jamie stops the vision before Stevie and Gary break into an outright brawl over who deserves to be thrown into the pit of snakes. 

No, it’ll be much easier to deal with Gary and lie through his teeth if Stevie isn’t there. He mumbles his thanks and Stevie lets go, like he understands exactly what Jamie is thinking.

*

“Oh there he is,” Gary says when Jamie makes it to the press area, alone. “I was just telling them how you caught me.” He turns back to the reporter--a pretentious looking fellow in his late twenties in an expensive suit and gelled back hair. 

“Carragher here had questionable reflexes back when he was still playing and they only got worse with age, I’m afraid.” The reporter smiles politely and so does Jamie, intensely aware of the cameras. “But,” Gary continues, “I could have hurt my ankle much worse if he hadn’t caught me and for that I’m grateful. Thank you, Carra.” Gary’s smile when he turns to Jamie is friendly, his voice easygoing but it throws Jamie off balance because it’s the media trained kind. Like the way he used to smile and talk when Jamie first started at Sky, polite and pleasant and betraying nothing of what he’s actually thinking.

_He probably thinks it was nothing_ (because it was indeed nothing) _or he’s thinking about throwing me in that pit of snakes_ his mind supplies. Jamie isn’t Scholes. Or Beckham, or anyone else really that Gary would be interested in. He would have known by now if he was.

It’s not particularly hard though, to stand here and talk to the media, to explain how it didn’t mean anything, to de-escalate and deflect. Scores of defeats and disappointments over the years trained him to hear the traps and the baited questions that go unsaid. And even at their current state, when Jamie doesn’t know where they stand, it’s surprisingly easy to face the cameras with Gary on his side. A wordless understanding floats in the space between them as they anticipate where a particular answer is headed or when a joke would come in handy. In the end they even manage to turn the conversation around to Carrick and his time at the club.

“Well, gentlemen, thank you very much,” the reporter says finally and Jamie can swear he looks disappointed because he didn’t get the sensational soundbite or a grand declaration of love or whatever the fuck he was angling to get. The little bastard. 

No matter how fucked up the situation is there is some satisfaction to take from that.

He wants to say as much to Gary. A _we did well, didn’t we?_ as soon as they are out of the cameras’ earshot; a little bit of pride to go around even if there isn’t anything else left. 

He is about to as they are walking towards the dressing rooms, their footsteps echoing in the empty corridor, when Gary pulls him to the side without a warning and shoves him through a door.

“What the--” he starts out of surprise. Gary closes the door behind him and stands across from Jamie, a safe distance away.

“Right, sorry about that,” he says, “I wanted to be discreet. I thought…” he trails off, waving his hands in the air in a futile gesture. 

They seem to be in some sort passageway underneath the stands, accessed through a door Jamie hadn’t even noticed was there and the silence is starting to stretch into awkward and uncomfortable as they stand there, eyes drifting across the walls and the ground.

Jamie, you see, has a speech or two prepared in case he and Gary ever made out, ranging from ‘you know the truth now, take it or leave it’ to ‘we all know you can’t handle your liquor Gary you’d make out with a llama after a few drinks’ varying by scenario.

It’s just that accidentally kissing Gary in front of thousands, in a testimonial match that isn’t even theirs and then exhausting every non-threatening joke while talking to the media isn’t exactly a scenario he accounted for.

In the end Jamie sticks with his original question. 

“We did well, didn’t we?” 

Gary looks at him for the first time since they came in. He starts tentatively, his voice a little strained but finding its flow as he goes on. At least he doesn’t seem too keen on the pit of snakes idea.

“If you are referring to the part where we sent that bastard away empty handed, then yeah.” Gary grins at the end. It’s a real grin this time too, the one he sports whenever he has successfully put someone down in a Twitter battle, or whenever Liverpool or City botch up a game spectacularly and he doesn’t think anyone is looking.

Jamie hangs on to it like a distant light in a dark night. A vision of their normal, attainable, however faint and far away. He forces a smile onto his face too, just as another, scarier thought occurs to him.

“Are you sure a steward won’t walk in here in a minute? Because I can already see the headlines mate and I’d hate to give the tabloids the satisfaction.”

**WE TOLD YOU SO. READ HOW GARY NEVILLE AND CARRAGHER GOT CAUGHT IN OLD TRAFFORD SEX SCANDAL.**

He has a sense that he’ll be an old man, spend most of his day sitting on a rocking chair and he will still wish he’d be swallowed up whole by the ground any time today’s incident comes up.

How. How could they.

Gary rolls his eyes. “You write for a tabloid for fuck’s sake. But no, no one will come looking for us here.” His gaze shifts around the stark walls and the slanted ceiling with something like fond nostalgia. “Nothing changes around this stadium.” 

“How do you know?”

Gary’s face clouds over, his expression unreadable again as all of their tentative mirth gets sucked out of the room in the drop of a hat. 

Jamie curses himself.

_An out of sight passageway on the way to the dressing rooms, with plenty of space. A sure affirmation of_ no one will bother us here.

Stevie and Xabi showing up to the dressing room ages after the final whistle, flushed and dishevelled.

_The supply closet at Anfield._

Jamie wonders how he can be so stupid. Imagines a young Gary in a jersey just as dirty and baggy as the one he has on right now, standing against this very wall, his hands and his face lost in strands of golden hair. 

Jamie has no business being here.

He’ll leave, take a quick shower and maybe spend the night over at Stevie’s. They can talk it out tomorrow or next week or whenever when their nerves aren’t so frayed. Or better still they can ignore that today ever happened and that’ll be that.

“I didn’t think,” Gary interrupts his thoughts, though he too seems far-away. “I just... I wanted to talk.” Then, just like that, he snaps back to the moment and looks at Jamie again like he is searching for something there.

Jamie needs to leave but he feels pinned to where he is under Gary’s gaze. An unvoiced question hangs heavy in the air between them.

Like that one time in the studio when Jamie told him he was joining the testimonial. Or that one time in Spain when Valencia had won and they drank more than they should have, Gary still glowing because of the victory and Jamie glowing because Gary was happy and he was right there. Like--

Gary runs a hand over his face. Looks years older than he is.

“You think Sky will let us keep our jobs?” 

“No point in firing both of us, is there?” Jamie says quickly, shifting where he stands, eyes darting to the door. He tries very hard for their familiar back-and-forth even if his voice comes out strained. “The question is who they’ll keep.” 

It’s good to leave things on a positive note. On a bit of banter. In time they can forget about today and work their way back from that. 

“You are the better pundit, but I’m less likely to leave for management--again. So.”

_What?_

Jamie takes a step back, (or he would if he wasn’t standing against the wall) at the offhand honesty in Gary’s voice. The way he offers it so casually, complete with a little shrug. The way he slowly looks up from the ground to meet Jamie’s eye. That unreadable expression back in his eyes, searching, shy, nervous, that leaves Jamie unsure if he remembers how to breathe.

Gary shouting over the phone at someone _he is a bloody good pundit, get your ears tested if you can’t hear damnit_ when Jamie still tiptoes around the studio and misses his boots. Gary stealing his nuggets during late nights and Jamie letting him because he looks-- _less awful_ \--when he smiles like that, his mouth full. Gary crying on his shoulder, his sobs quiet, something they will never mention again as the word _Barcelona_ fills the room like a thick poisonous fog. 

Gary tripping mid-run, eyes wide with surprise and his mouth hanging a little open, because he caught Jamie smiling at him.

And Gary, here in a hidden passageway Jamie was never meant to set foot in, lingering when he should have left long ago, desperately trying to tell Jamie something.

Like a truth that’s been hidden underneath layers of banter and text messages at 3 am and words they never said. 

_Oh._

*

“Gary.” Jamie’s voice is hoarse and his heart is beating too hard against his chest as he takes a step towards Gary. Puts his hand on Gary’s arm. Gary stays absolutely still under the touch, his eyes quickly flicking to where Jamie’s hand rests against his skin, before flicking back to Jamie.

“Tell me if this isn’t what you want.”

The words come out all garbled though, his accent picking up whenever he’s nervous. Jamie isn’t sure if even Stevie would have gotten that sentence. He takes a breath to steady himself, to try again slower--

“If,” Gary says voice barely above a whisper but still firm, “you are about to kiss me, yes. If not what the hell are you doing Carra?”

Jamie takes a second to process what he’s heard, repeating the words over and over in his head to make sure he got them right.

His face breaks into a huge goofy grin when he finally convinces himself that he has.

Gary Neville is standing a hair’s breadth away from him, all lovely brown eyes, crooked nose and hair that is now long enough to fall into his eyes _and he wants Jamie to kiss him_.

He wants Jamie.

Jamie feels like he’ll grow wings and fly right out of the stadium any moment now.

“If only you waited so long to kiss me twenty minutes ago,” Gary huffs finally.

Jamie is saying ‘you bloody well know it was an accident’ but Gary takes matters into his own hands and pulls him in before he can finish the sentence. 

Gary’s mouth still feels like heaven pressed against Jamie’s own but this time he gets to revel in their softness. He threads a hand through Gary’s hair and kisses him slowly, relishes the hint of salt on his lips, drinks in their warmth. He wants to go slowly, methodical as he commits every sensation, every detail about Gary to memory.

_A weekend on his lips, a lifetime in his eyes._

Then Gary moans against his mouth and Jamie’s plans go out the window along with the shudder that courses through his body. There will be time to go slow later. Right now Jamie needs Gary, all of him and he needs it as soon as possible.

He’s just sneaked in his free hand underneath Gary’s jersey, their erections already straining against each other, and is making his way to Gary’s chest when Gary draws back. 

Jamie tweaks Gary’s nipple with his thumb and surges forward to reinstate the softness and the warmth to his lips.

Gary makes an absolutely filthy sound but he stops Jamie with a hand against his chest.

“Wait,” he says, in between pants, “not here.” 

“I think here is just dandy,” Jamie replies when he can trust his voice again - _and really, dandy? did he just use the word dandy unironically in a sentence?_ \- “don’t you?”

Gary looks tempted, judging by the way he can’t seem to keep his eyes from Jamie’s lips, but in the end he doesn’t buckle.

“I will break up with you if you keep using that word, just so you know,” _he wants to date Jamie then doesn’t he?_ “but. Someone will notice that we have been gone for too long,” that is a good point, “and frankly I don’t want our first time to be in my old makeout spot with Becks. He regards his surroundings again, frowning a little. And then he plays the magic card that Jamie can’t argue with. “I need to get my ankle checked out too, it’s bothering me.”

“Fair enough,” Jamie says, caressing Gary’s fingers as he speaks “but where if not here?”

Gary suggests they wait until tomorrow when the dust settles a bit but it takes them five seconds to shoot the idea down. What they come up with in the end is much better. Jamie will leave the stadium in his own car, while Gary convinces Rio to drive Stevie only as far as Liverpool--(the unforseen dangers of carpooling to Manchester with your best mate) and he and Gary will avoid any public contact. Jamie then will drop by the Scholes residence to pick up the extra keys to Gary’s house and wait for him there as Gary gets his ankle seen to.

Stevie, Jamie knows he can survive though there will be hell to pay for it later. Scholes, he is less sure of but if Gary explains the situation nice and calmly he is almost certain Scholes won’t murder him out in public. 

(And it’s worth it really, whatever marginal risk that remains if it means Jamie gets to make Gary breakfast tomorrow morning. He’s pretty sure Gary’s won’t mind bacon that is _only slightly_ charred.)

~Epilogue~

As he tiptoes into Gary’s house, Jamie is pretty sure he will have nightmares where Scholes is chasing after him with a rifle in the near future. The way the man stood there at the door with a face made of stone like he hadn’t made up his mind on whether to give Jamie the keys or stab him with them as Jamie blabbered on awkwardly. If Gary had to ask Stevie for the keys to Jamie’s house Jamie would at least have the decency to inform Stevie of what was going on, instead of just sending in Gary there like a lamb to the slaughter.

He tries to push the image as far from his mind possible as he wanders into the empty house. Jamie’s been here before, quite a few times actually but it feels eery in how quiet it is without Gary in it. Like Jamie is breaking in. 

The framed pictures that line the hallway catch his eye as he walks past them. He’s seen them before but never really stopped to look, and right now well, Jamie has more time on his hands than he knows what to do with until Gary returns.

There is a photo of Gary where he is knee high and is running on the grass with Phil and Tracey. A couple photos from family vacations. A photo of him with his Scholes and Becks and the rest of their little squad, his moustache the only thing more questionable than his hair, their carefree laugh frozen in time. And there are more recent photos too. A dinner with friends Jamie has only briefly met. A celebration on Moor Lane, every inch of the picture taken up by the happy faces of the fans and players. 

And in the corner, in a newer frame, he sees himself staring back; a cocktail in his hand complete with its little umbrella. They are making faces at the camera under the Spanish sun, him and Gary and Phil. 

They look ridiculous.

It’s a good thing there is no one else in the house to hear the wet chuckle that escapes Jamie’s lips. 

A single happy memory from Valencia and Jamie right in the middle of it.

There on Gary’s wall all along.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for making it all the way to the end! Comments and feedback are always appreciated. Here are some random notes. :)
> 
> -Y’all write such beautiful carraville stories that mix humor and angst and I...well it’s not my fault that my brain just went ‘yes but what if they made out!!! on the pitch!!! and accidentally too!!! that, that is what you should write.’ Fine, fine I will jump off the ship myself now before you guys collectively push me off it and feed me to the sharks.  
> -The game Jamie and Stevie played in the beginning is Liverpool Legends v Real Madrid Legends and look at how happy Jamie looks in all his post-game [ Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/BSFJ3G9APw7/?taken-by=23_carra&hl=en) [ pics!](https://www.instagram.com/p/BSFHNb8guwa/?taken-by=23_carra&hl=en)  
> -This testimonial is set to take place in June 2017 and while we know that Gary, Stevie and Carra will all be there we really don’t know a whole lot yet so I took a few creative liberties with the details.  
> -We also don’t know if Carrick will retire at the end of this season or leave United at least. Now, I’d actually be mad if these two pulled such a stunt on my man Carrick’s last game as a United player so (alternate?) universe where he is not retiring--just yet. (Can we de-age him and keep him forever?)  
> -The ‘a weekend on your lips, a lifetime in your eyes’ line while poetic and beautiful is not mine. I lifted it from Leonard Cohen’s  Slow.  
> -Also in the running for the fic’s title were ‘one man’s epic quest for nipples,’ Old Trafford: definitely not a strip club nor a pit of snakes’ and my motto in life, ‘Carrick deserves better.’ Feel free to share your own failed titles if you have nothing better to do.


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